


There Is No Sanity Clause

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [31]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Sam, Angst, Bottom Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Deals, Hostage Situations, M/M, Manipulation, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scared Sam, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam grabs Ruby’s arm, gives her a meaningful look before she jerks away, eyes shuttering quickly to black and then back.</p><p>In which Sam and Ruby have to play at being friends as they endeavor to find Dean, and are a surprisingly spectacular team.</p><p>Sam POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is No Sanity Clause

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Joker monologue in the graphic novel, The Killing Joke, by Alan Moore.

As it turns out, police officers in Hardin wear all grey, with a hint of black.

This doesn’t leave Sam with a lot of other choices as to his false uniform, but he opts with all black, will be better for him in the long run, and he needs to differentiate between himself and Hardin’s (admittedly mediocre) force.

Sam’s just relieved that he’s not in midnight blue, the default police apparel that every movie displays. He tugs on the black belt, it’s a bit snug, and the pants are uncomfortably tight in several areas, but this is the best he can do on such short notice. The boots are his size though, he bought them from a Big and Tall warehouse in Miles City, couple hours out from Hardin.

The pants are too short, but he’ll live, they’re tucked into the steel-toed boots that he had opted for, even though Crowley had grunted, called them overkill.

Sam’s not leaving anything to chance. He doesn’t _need_ to costume himself in the uniform of a police officer, but with the amount of blood he plans on wearing once he finds Dean, he figures it might be advantageous to have a cover story, however weak it may end up being.

He’s trying to keep a low profile, here.

Hardin’s got a population of around 3,000, and, from experience, Sam knows that the mass murder he’s planning to commit will travel around this place at warp speed. He presses two fingers to his temple, vein pulsing in sympathy.

He’s not fond of killing. He’s good at it, efficient, well-oiled machine, courtesy of his father and his love affair with the Marines.

But there’s something altered, when the murders concern Dean. There’s something that’s fundamentally lacking when he associates killing with his brother, and now that he’s got the time to think on it, it’s actually concerning.

Where is the strict moral code he was raised to believe?

He’s got it filling his lungs, painful breath every time he inhales, he’s suffocating in it. It’s as much a part of him as the name he was born with, the mother he was raised to lose. None of that exists though, not when Dean’s involved.

He’s never been able to curb it, temper it, give it a vital path to exist within. There are no parameters, and there’s no off switch. He’s never been able to tell himself to be done. Alpha has never been able to fall back and heel. Sam has controlled his wolf, dominated it, since he declared at fourteen, gangly and pale, all limbs and big feet.

He governed through trial and error, the way all Alphas are bred, and he leashed himself so tight, disallowed his nature to take his brother, to take away the last choice Dean had been given. Problem is, he never taught himself how to let go.

He’s always left a raft, splintered wood and corkscrew holes, slow sinking, when he needed to drown. He was supposed to drown, saltwater lungs, pre-existing ache.

Sam leans down and tucks the aglets of his laces into his boots, stomping once or twice on the concrete to loosen the leather. They’re tight as hell and he obviously doesn’t have the time needed to break them in.

Ruby is pulling her hair up in a tight ponytail, eyes roaming over Sam, expressionless, hat tucked in between her legs so she can avoid setting it down.

There’s nothing in the town of Hardin. They couldn’t have picked a better place for Sam to rip apart, and he searches for Alpha, something he avoids doing at all costs, abhors riling him up, calling him forth to collect his due.

His wolf remains as stoic as ever, stiff in Sam’s limbs, like a wire band stretched to the outermost limits, one false motion for it to snap back to original shape, destroy everything during its return to normalcy. Nothing redeemable has ever come of a patient Alpha.

Sam sucks in a sharp breath, ignores the vibrant throb of adrenaline sweeping through his veins, lighting the room in scent-spark of ice and flame.

Crowley flicks imaginary dust off of the lapel of his coat, sends Sam a distinctly reproachful look. “Down, boy,” he says condescendingly, delicately sniffing at the air that Sam has inadvertently polluted with his anticipation. Sam spares him a glance, that’s all he is afforded, because Alpha is no longer permitting him to express fury.

There’s only one thing he’s allowed to focus on, and the hell-spawn in the room are not within range.

Crowley clears his throat, and Ruby’s face twists with moderate annoyance, an improvement, for her. She leans against the wall, sawdust rubbing off onto her jean jacket. “Since we’re clearly only here for your benefit, what’s the plan?” Crowley smiles, smooth gin, and gestures to Sam.

Sam folds his arms across his chest, shirt sleeves uncomfortably tight against the muscles in his arms. “There aren’t a lot of places to hide in Hardin. Also, I doubt that there’s only one demon guarding Dean.” He pauses, smiles real pretty in Ruby’s direction.

“That’s where you come in.” She levers herself upward, slight smirk playing at her face. She loves to play games. “What do you need?” Sam begins to pace, it’s always helped him to gesture and move as he thinks, but he usually only makes plans with Dean, never for him.

“You’re hysterical, alright? Your husband just left you, you’ve got a kid on the way. You heard he passed through this town and you wanna know if anyone’s seen him, where he could be.” Ruby inclines her head, wrinkle of confusion on her face.

“What’s that gonna solve? Send us on a wild goose chase?” Sam snorts. “Two reasons. First, it’s gonna establish the fact that there’s a stranger in town. Sooner we get that out, the better. Potential scapegoat for what we’re about to do here.”

He unbuttons his sleeves, methodically rolls them up to his elbows, needs air. “He’s not a stand up dude, all they’ll remember is that he left his pregnant omega. Kind of bastard does that?” Crowley hums from his position in the corner, small concession of agreement. “People are willing to blame anyone. It’s human nature. _Can’t_ be Mrs. Davis down the street, or the gardener, cause they _know_ them.”

Sam smiles, wide mouthed, same way he looked when Dean let him pick out his first Christmas tree, cut it down and everything. Lottery grin, unbridled joy. “no one in their town would think of doing such a _horrible_ thing.” He says. “But your bastard of a husband? Oh, he would. And he did.”

Crowley pulls his coat off, drapes the garment over his left shoulder. “That’s well and good, we get out of here, scot free. How does this help us find the boy, Winchester?” Sam looks above Crowley’s head, faulty sense of control swimming in his veins, Alpha placid demeanor, smooth pond and gentle ripples.

“They’re gonna tell us everything they know about this place. Anything to help.” Sam nods at Ruby, crosses over to her quickly, eyes narrowed as he glares down at her. “You’re not far enough along to scent, yet. If they ask.” Sam grabs her chin, holding it tightly between thumb and index.

“You play at being a human all the time, Ruby. This better be the best performance of your life.” She snatches her head away, meaningless hiss in his face. “Don’t fucking touch me, Winchester. I’ll do it. And I’ll do a good job, too.” She appraises him coolly, strange expression in her eyes.

“I usually get what I want.”

Crowley claps his hands, startling the pair, and rolls his eyes for good measure. “If you’re both quite done measuring dicks, I suggest we get a move on.” Sam is inclined to agree. He’s not sure what caliber of demons have Dean, and his brother can only hold off so many, for so long. He’s not even close to full strength.

Crowley walks briskly to the car, three paces ahead of Sam and Ruby. “Lilith doesn’t know I’m involved just yet, and I’d rather like to keep it that way.” Ruby and Sam exchange disbelieving glances. “Really, Crowley?” Crowley huffs slightly. “Well, she’s probably somewhat aware, but if I’m not seen with you two knuckle draggers, it’s probably better for me in the long run.” His smile turns sadistic, of a sudden.

“She thinks I’m going to hang myself. Too bad for her, I already have.” He bundles dark-clad legs into his seat, slides the tinted window all the way up. The car lingers for a brief second before it rumbles down the street, and Sam grabs Ruby’s arm, gives her a meaningful look before she jerks away, eyes shuttering quickly to black and then back.

They walk side by side, and Sam, surprisingly, has no trouble exuding tranquility, due to the fact that Alpha is permitting it, allowing him to remain focused and calm, understanding the necessity.

Makes his blood ice water, blizzard of knives in his body.

They don’t have long to wait. It’s a little after five on a Friday, and the entire town is on its way home for dinner with the family, blues and greens of cars whizzing past, mothers and fathers with strollers, cry-scent of small, unpresented youth.

Ruby jabs him with one elbow, the only advance warning he gets, and then she’s _sobbing_ , fucking wailing at the top of her lungs, hands picking and clutching at the fabric of Sam’s uniform, and she’s swiveling her head back and forth, up at him and out at the crowd.

Sam is nonplussed, but he quickly falls into step, wraps one big hand around her waist and pulls her close to his side, gently rubs her back. He stays with her as she reaches out frantically to the woman in front of her, mid-sixties, Sam guesses, citrus-sweet scent of concern enveloping them before they’re even close enough to speak.

Perfection.

Ruby releases Sam a fraction, just enough to begin wildly gesticulating with her hands.

“M’sorry, I’m so sorry, ma’am, I’ve been out here all day, and Kent’s been so good to help me--” She tugs at his arm, mentioning his newly acquired name, and Sam calls on all his years of FBI impersonation and smiles kindly at the woman before him, soft-scented Beta, smells like rain.

“but we’ve looked everywhere, we got here at eight this morning and I--I just can’t do it anymore--” Ruby dissolves into further tears and Sam pats at her head and sighs apologetically. “I’m sorry ma’am--” Sam begins, and she interjects, for the very first time, nudges them gently over on the sidewalk, so that they’re standing beside a linen shop, out of the way of pedestrians. “I’m Christina.” She smiles benevolently down at Ruby, squatting a bit to see her face, as it’s bent slightly into Sam’s upper arm. “Sweetheart. Sweetie, do you think you can slow down and tell me what you need?”

Sam tilts Ruby’s head up, uncharacteristic gentility, and she smiles once, honest showing of teeth. “Emma,” he offers, first name in his head, “do you want to talk or you want me to?” Ruby stands upright, swipes at her face, which is red and blotchy by now.

“I’m fine. I can do this.” This last is said with a moderate amount of congestion, and Sam thinks that if he didn’t know Ruby came from the entrails of Hell, he might be a bit affected by her. “Ma’am--” she stutters prettily, tilts tear-stained baby blues upward, “Christina, my husband left me, yesterday, and I’m from South Dakota, so it took me a little bit to drive down here. Kent’s a cop, back home, and he came with me, cause--” her lower lip trembles and Sam puts a comforting arm around her shoulder.

“She’s pregnant, ma’am,” he says. “She’s not far enough along to scent, but he knows, and we think that’s why he up and left.” Sam makes his voice hard, channels all his dormant rage for Dean into his tone, lets a bit of Alpha-snarl peek through. “I’ve known David all my life, didn’t know he was gonna be such a son of a bitch to Emma. I’ll drag him back by his neck.”

Ruby rubs a small hand against him, ghost of a smile. “We’ve looked everywhere, and we don’t know this town, but we talked to his best friend, back home, and he said David might have come here.” She bites at her lip, holds back tears. “Says he has friends here.” Christina looks livid, smell of concern melding with indignation and rage, and Sam can barely stifle a grin.

Ruby shudders, deep breath coursing through her small frame, and Sam is sorely tempted to give her a standing ovation. The bitch is fucking flawless. “I was wondering if you’d seen him. Or, if you could explain where things are around here, so maybe Kent and I could go look?” Christina is nodding, was nodding midway through the sentence, wringing her hands in and out.

“Of course, Emma, dear. What’s this asshole look like?” Ruby smiles, brilliant look, and Sam has to glance away. “He’s about six foot, got black hair and brown eyes.” She grimaces, tugging at her fingers as if she knows it’s a weak description. “I don’t--” she hangs her head, voice dropping. “I don’t know what he’s wearing, I haven’t seen him, but if you have--” Christina interrupts, placating. “I don’t remember, dear but I’ll keep a look out. He could be at Four Aces, man like him seems like he’d like to drink.” She wrinkles her nose in some disdain.

Sam grits his teeth. They won’t have Dean anywhere near a bar. Ruby squeezes his hand suddenly, and sniffles. “Anywhere else?” Christina smiles, worn and burdened. “There’s the pool hall, uh, the Big Horn museum, the City Pump,” she reaches out to touch Ruby, and retracts her hands, nervous tic. “Those are all tourist places, I think.”

Christina’s eyes light up, and she claps her hands together, startling Sam. “Well, if he’s gotten himself into trouble, he could be at the jail, probably why I haven’t seen him.” She says. “It’s not a very big town.” Ruby is nodding profusely, smile widening. “Can you tell me how to get there?” Christina nods. “Of course. Don’t get it confused with the other one though. There’s Two Rivers over on North Lessard, but they built that a few years ago and it’s been empty ever since.” Her mouth curls in disgust, it’s probably a sore spot for the locals.

“He’d be in Big Horn Jail, on 3rd St, West.” She looks back and forth at them, matronly and kind, hopeful scent, warm vanilla seeping from her pores. Sam leans forward, cups her elbow and smiles, all-American, real big, the same way he used to look at the girls in his high school. Christina blushes wildly, small laugh stuck in her throat.

Ruby is giddy, appropriately dejected but moderately sanguine, and she can’t stop babbling. “Thank you, thank you so much, we never even thought of that. That’s just the kind of shit David would get himself into.”

Sam grins. “Thanks for all your help, Christina. I’m sure we’ll catch up to him.”

Sam all but drags Ruby away, fingers locked around her hand, skin-warmed handcuffs.

Ruby smirks in his direction, all but skipping, and Sam has to pay her begrudging respect. They were quite the team. Alpha is still a solid wall of rigidity, but there’s a tiny, distant gratification in his scent, and though he’s sheltered himself from Sam, Sam can feel his pleasure.

Ruby wiggles her fingers experimentally in his grip, and winks up at him. “Where’d she say the old jail was?”

Sam unbuttons the top button on his shirt with his free hand.

“North Lessard.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Calm down Ruby haters (feathertail), she's a means to an end. :)


End file.
